


The Queen of the Hanged Angels

by pauraque



Category: Aladdin (1992)
Genre: Blood Kink, Consent Issues, Corruption, Cunnilingus, Dark, F/M, Feathers & Featherplay, Femdom, Id Pro Quo 2020, Knifeplay, Master/Slave, Mind Control, Orgasm Denial, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23916064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: Jasmine has always lived a life of privilege. Now she learns the true meaning of power.
Relationships: Aladdin/Jasmine (Disney)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 30
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	The Queen of the Hanged Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanwenmc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanwenmc/gifts).



After it's all over, Jasmine finds the staff discarded and forgotten on the palace floor. It is lying near the wall, facing it, almost coy in its averted gaze. It looks smaller than it did when brandished in a sorcerer's hand, and curiously mundane. Only a man-made, unliving object, after all.

She approaches it cautiously, glancing around as though someone is going to leap out and catch her at it. But no one is here. No one sees her crouch down beside the staff; no one hears the quiet click of metal on marble as she lifts it from the floor. It's heavier than it looks— a leaden, dead weight in her hands as she rises with it, steadies it and turns it to face her.

The snake's eyes no longer glow. They are now only ordinary rubies, shaded by the cobra's menacing brows. And yet, when Jasmine peers into them, she feels a deep, uncomfortable instinct to freeze before the predator, as she has seen rats frozen in terror beneath Rajah's gaze when he catches them in the garden.

Though out of its master's hands, this staff is still a thing of evil. It ought to be destroyed. Aladdin broke it once... but that was before Jafar gained his full power. Gold is one of the softest metals, but Jasmine knows in her heart that mere stone won't break it now.

Could it be melted down? In her mind's eye she sees liquid evil flowing into the cracks in the walls, creeping into the earth like a poison, never to be cleansed. Her hands tighten nervously around the staff, as if it might slither out of her grasp. No... no, it must be kept whole.

But not in her father's treasury, surely. She doesn't trust the guards, and if her father saw it among his innocent, jewel-encrusted baubles and toys, it would only be a reminder of his humiliation.

No. Jasmine will keep the staff, conceal it in some hidden place. She must. Tentatively she traces the outline of the cobra's hood, cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. Only she can keep it safe.

*

Jasmine used to imagine that being Queen would come with great power. But once it happens, she begins to realize that was only an adolescent fantasy. Nothing truly changes — she is still a rose decorating the Sultan's palace, only this Sultan is her husband, not her father.

She sits by Aladdin's side as they ride through the streets on one of their frequent parades. His smile flashes brightly, and so do the gold coins he scatters to his adoring populace amidst shouts and trumpet fanfares. _(He's generous — so generous!)_ The carriage keeps hitting bumps in the road and making Jasmine feel like she has to hold her tiara to keep it from falling off, perhaps into some fishmonger's grasping, grubby hands. Despite the multicolored canopy that shades them, she is sweating, and the dust kicked up by their horses sticks to her skin.

When they return to the palace, she takes a bath. She takes it alone, shooing away the ever-present handmaidens who want to strew rose petals into her alabaster tub. In privacy, she slides down and lets the cool water come up to her chin. It soothes away the summer heat, but does not comfort the restless irritation that still stirs within her, making her stomach squirm and her hands twitch.

In moments like this, she thinks of the staff. She pictures it lying where she hid it, not buried in a cave of sand and wonders, but in the secret depths of her own wardrobe, ignominiously muffled beneath crumpled layers of muslin and silk garments ruined by stains.

Jasmine has long known of the dangers of magic. When she was small, her nursemaid told her the tale of the two faithless angels... They chose to be punished for their sins by being strung up by their ankles in a hidden cavern, a temptation to all who would stray from the path. There they taught sorcery to men who failed to heed their warning that all who practice witchcraft come, at last, to a bitter end. Jasmine remembers holding her small knees tightly, rapt at attention as the sun-leathered old woman told her this tale. She remembers quivering as she heard it, as much in excitement as in fear.

When Jasmine mentioned the story to her father, he frowned and scolded her for speaking of such things, and shortly that nursemaid was sent away.

Once she thought it was only a tale. But after seeing what she has seen, it doesn't seem so far-fetched. She imagines Jafar skulking through a darkened cavern, torch in hand. Standing before the hanged angels in their eternal punishment, their great broken wings trembling, such that the whole chamber shook. If he heard their warning, surely he would have laughed at it — too obsessed with power and greed to let the horrific admonition of celestial voices deter him.

A deep shudder runs through Jasmine's naked body, making ripples across the surface of the bathwater. She finds her chest rising and falling quickly, and realizes her nipples are tight and stiff. In surprise, she runs her palm over them beneath the water, and rivulets of pleasure trickle down to meet at her sex. Her skin feels warm, almost glowing in contrast with the water's coolness.

Her eyes are wide and her mouth dry as she slides her hand down to touch beneath her legs, shocked at the other kind of wetness she finds there. Why does it feel so good to think of something so terrible? And why does her mind yearn to retell the story with _herself_ as the arrogant sorceress seeking forbidden knowledge?

_When I am Queen, I will have the power..._

And if she did? If it were _she_ who commanded the unbridled power of the angels, and not some foolish, conniving old man?

Water splashes over the side of the tub and onto the floor as Jasmine rubs herself over the edge into a sudden climax, her cries echoing off the mosaic tilework of the bathroom walls.

*

It is Aladdin who discovers the staff, of course. Somehow he always manages to stumble into these things. She comes into her chamber and is brought up short by the sight of him there, among a mess of her old clothes, examining the staff and turning it over casually in his hands like it's nothing more than an interesting walking stick.

"What are you doing with that?" she blurts out, her heart in her throat as she rushes over to try to grab it from him.

He stops her with one hand and holds the staff out of her reach with the other — damn his strong arms. "I could ask you the same thing," he points out. To her relief, the angle of his brows is more puzzled than angry. "How come this was in here?"

"To keep it safe, of course!" It's the truth, so why does she feel like she's lying? She snatches at the staff from one side, then nimbly ducks behind Aladdin's back and yanks it out of his grasp from behind him, where he's weaker. "I didn't want it to fall into the wrong hands. The better question is why are _you_ going through my things?"

She hops up onto her bed, taking the high ground as Aladdin turns and playfully lunges at her as if to take back his prize. "Well, if you really want to know," he says, his hands closing around empty air as she pulls it away, backpedaling, "I was looking for that dress Abu ripped at the banquet last week, so I could get it fixed up for you. It was _going_ to be a surprise!"

"You still shouldn't paw through a girl's wardrobe," she says, smiling despite herself.

"Even if the girl's my wife?" Grinning, he tries to grab her feet out from under her, but his eyes telegraph it and Jasmine leaps off the bed and lands lightly on the floor, leaving him with nothing to tackle. He rolls on the bed and then comes up on all fours, searching for her.

Without planning to, Jasmine steps forward and plants the staff hard on the floor, pointing the cobra's emerald eyes toward her husband's. " _Especially_ if she's your wife," she states, her lips still curled upward but inwardly surprised at how much she absolutely isn't joking.

"Very funny," Aladdin says, bringing his legs up beneath him tailor-fashion and nudging the staff aside with the back of his hand. With a lopsided smile, he adds, "I don't think that thing ever would have worked on me."

She laughs, playing along. "Oh, no? I always thought you had a rather... malleable mind." She turns and flicks her hip at him, runs her hand seductively down her backside. She watches his eyes follow, almost as if mesmerized, and laughs again as he reaches out for her, wanting to touch. Teasingly, she blocks him with the staff, placing it down between them again. "Care to test your will?"

"What, with this?" His eyebrow quirks curiously as he taps the staff with his knuckle. "Seriously?"

"Of course, if the big hero is afraid..." Jasmine examines her fingernails casually, though her heart is pounding madly in her chest.

For a moment Aladdin looks at her strangely askance, as if uncertain whether she really means what she seems to mean. Then he shakes his head. "There's no way it'll work," he says, "but it might be fun to try." He flashes his perfect grin. Such an unlikely mouth for a boy from the streets.

"Very well." She gives her arms and legs a stretch and sets herself in a wide stance. "I'll give an order, and you try to resist it."

"Okay," he says, settling his feet on the floor and crossing his arms with maddening smugness. "Go ahead."

She clears her throat and aims the staff at him, gripping it tightly to stop her hand from shaking. "All right. I order you to... pick up that orange from the fruit bowl." She indicates it with a glance.

Aladdin doesn't move. "Nothing yet," he announces confidently.

Feeling a flush of disappointed embarrassment creeping up her chest, Jasmine searches for something else, and finds a spark of indignance within herself. "I order you to pick up those clothes you made a mess of," she says, frowning.

He smirks. "Still nothing."

A streak of frustration sears through her like lightning. She wants to wipe that smug look off his face.

" _Kneel_ ," she snaps, and the staff trembles in her hand like a roll of answering thunder.

In a flash, Aladdin slips off the bed and drops heavily to his knees on the floor before her, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Did I do it?" Jasmine blurts out in alarm, hardly able to believe it herself.

"You did... something," Aladdin says, rubbing his knees with a wince as he gets to his feet. "For a second it just felt like... getting down there was the only thing I wanted to do."

"It was the only thing I wanted you to do, too," she admits.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment she feels they are both naked in their confessions, speaking truths that have never before been allowed. There is no warning — no cosmic admonition, no heavenly voice. She is just a woman standing before a man, holding a staff in a bright, ordinary room. She can hear the twittering of the swallows faintly out the window in the garden.

"Maybe that's the secret to using it," Aladdin says at last. "You have to really want to." He rubs his chin, gazing upward. "I guess that makes sense. Jafar wasn't just playing... He really wanted all those things."

"He was mad," Jasmine says, feeling a queer sort of hollowness inside.

"But you're not," Aladdin answers with a certainty that seems, to her, perhaps not entirely warranted. He's standing very close to her, but no longer trying to take the staff away. Instead, he places his hand softly over hers, curling her fingers around it, affirming her right to hold it. "You were worried about it falling into the wrong hands. What about keeping it in the right ones?"

*

It's not that she didn't enjoy him before. Aladdin has always been an enthusiastic lover... if perhaps not the most skilled. Jasmine has never had another man as a basis of comparison, but it was years ago that she discovered the pleasures of her body, and neither her husband's prick nor his broad, rough hands have ever matched the intense joy of her own slender fingers in her sex.

But when she holds the staff, it's all very different.

It seems to grow lighter in her hand each time she uses its magic, until she can no longer remember how heavy it used to be. The moon has come round to fullness again, and they have both come to expect this each night — Aladdin on his knees before her, naked and ready for her to take control.

She stands over him, feet planted in a solid stance, and the staff as the third leg of the chair, steadying her even further. Though her stomach flutters with anticipation, she also feels a sense of grounded, easy calm. The rightness of this.

"Are you prepared?" she asks him, drawing her fingertips along the rough curve of his jaw. She allows the staff to tilt away slightly in her other hand, as though it is politely averting its eyes from this private moment between husband and wife.

Gazing up at her, Aladdin nods eagerly.

She grasps him firmly by the chin, insisting on eye contact. "Be respectful in your answer," she cautions. "Am I not your Queen?"

He melts visibly into a more deferent posture, the subtle arch of his back speaking of his desire to submit to her. "You _are_ my Queen," he says, his dark eyes intense and absolutely clear. He wants this. He knows what he is asking for.

She nods her approval and hefts the staff, directing it towards him. She releases his chin, allowing him to meet the golden cobra's enchanting gaze.

"You are in my power," she says, and means it. Pleasure curls within her like plumes of smoke as she watches his eyes cloud over with swirls of magic.

"I am in your power," he replies faintly, his hands loose and slack, resting on his thighs.

From within the folds of her dress she produces a vulture's feather: long, sleek, and black. Even under the staff's control, even only seeing it from the corner of his eye, Aladdin knows what this means; his prick begins to rise.

Jasmine chuckles softly, playing the tip of the feather along the side of his neck, his throat, his collarbones. "You will be still," she commands, delighting in the sight of the muscles of his shoulders and chest tensing and twitching. "You long to feel the feather's torment."

"Please..."

"Begging already?" she asks, smiling at how he flinches when she traces the ridges of his ear. "Very well. Your hand."

Instantly he lifts it for her, like a marionette pulled by a string.

She puts the feather in his hand and closes his fingers around it for him. She bends down to speak nearly into his ear, and orders, "You will tease yourself."

Unable to break away from the cobra's gaze, Aladdin fumbles at first, bringing the feather down too fast and bumping it into himself. Jasmine doesn't help him; instead she only watches in amusement as he sightlessly finds his way, at last bringing the feather to the base of his already rigid cock and stroking it slowly up to the tip.

"Not too hard," she warns when he tries to exert more pressure on the next stroke, bending the feather's quill. "Remember, you want to be _teased_." 

He shudders and makes a small, needy sound in his throat, but obeys. His hand trembles as he trails the feather softly, so softly along his prick, his jaw slack as he stares into the staff's emerald eyes.

Jasmine giggles, finding herself feeling almost giddy, like at any moment her feet might float up off the floor. She is so strong, and he is so very, very weak — his will as thin as gossamer. "This is the only touch I will grant you," she says imperiously. "Only the barest of strokes. Poor, poor creature... Wouldn't it be lovely to feel a firmer hand? Or even to thrust yourself inside your Queen until..." She laughs again at how his prick jumps beneath the slowly stroking feather. "But there will be none of that now," she says, and then, carried away on the wings of her own exhilaration, she adds: "And perhaps there _never_ will be again."

When she speaks those words, she _feels_ Aladdin resist. It's like nothing she's felt before — like the rope nearly being jerked from her hands in a game of tug-of-war, trying to drag her arms from their sockets. Gasping sharply, she grasps the staff with both hands, protecting it from being wrenched from her grasp by his struggle.

"I am your Queen," she says through gritted teeth, shoving the staff closer to his face, insisting on her control. "You will do as I say. You will go without release as long as I care to make it so. You will tease yourself until pleasure is torture, _and you will want it_."

"Please," he whimpers, and she feels his resistance loosening.

"Yes," she hisses, feeling herself flying, delirious with her power. "Beg. Beg me to deny you."

Again, piteously: "Please... I beg you, my Queen, please..."

"Please what?" she demands, looking closely into his ever-swirling eyes.

Deep within her mind, she feels his resistance go slack before he even says the words: "Please... deny me..."

"Good boy," she says, finding herself half-breathless after their battle of wills. "Drop it."

The feather falls from his hand, leaving his prick straining at the empty air.

"Hands behind your back. Now..." Suddenly she pulls the staff away from him and lets it fall onto her bed; the breaking of its control over him is almost an audible snap in the room. She lifts her skirt, embroidered in gold, and steps forward, grasping him by the hair and covering his mouth with her sex.

His tongue is where it ought to be, where she _wills_ it to be, lapping as eagerly as a thirsty dog at a watering hole. Jasmine's pleasure rises to a rapid crest and sends her soaring like a leap from a mountain-top. Fisting his hair, she grinds against his face, crying out through her ecstasy.

When she comes down, she lets herself fall onto her bed and rolls onto her back, her wrist finding the reassurance of the staff beside her.

Aladdin slinks up onto the bed near her, off his knees but never really rising any higher than his Queen. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely dazed and still breathing raggedly; he hasn't come, after all.

"You..." he starts, as if having trouble operating his jaw, "you... scared me a little."

Jasmine's stomach drops like a carpet diving down to earth. This is it, then. She's gone too far, and he won't want it anymore. Won't want her for his Queen, only for his wife. Will want to go back to rutting atop her instead of kneeling at her feet.

He places his hand upon hers tentatively, and peers up at her with lidded, puppyish eyes. "I liked it," he says softly. "Is that really weird?"

*

Through the long winter nights, she teaches herself all the ways of tormenting her boy. Under the waning moon, she feathers his prick until he shoots his seed into empty air, calling out in agony for his Queen. The whip-thin crescent in the sky reminds her of the stinging stripes she leaves on his backside, on his thighs, and even on the soles of his feet — so sensitive there that it leaves him howling. She smiles up at the starry night, thinking of how he begs for that. Not right away, of course. But under the cobra's spell, no matter how he struggles against it, he always begs for Jasmine's tortures in the end.

And in the days, he trails after her like a loyal pet, always ready to serve her, to rub her feet, to bring her fresh figs from the garden and split them open, present them in his open hands. She carries the staff with her always now as she goes about the palace. The power of it squares her shoulders, makes her stand up as straight and true as the staff itself. And if a servant here and there recognizes it and dares give her an impudent sidelong glance, well — that's no cause for concern. 

After all, Jasmine is not forcing her boy to do anything that he doesn't already desire, deep down. She knows this from the misty haze of contentment in his eyes as he serves her. Ever more hazy day by day, it sometimes seems... Was there not a time, once, when his eyes looked much clearer? How long has it been since then? Recalling it begins to feel to Jasmine like the recollection of a dream — surely _now_ she is truly awake.

And now the summer has come round again, the Dog Star rising and tracing its bright curve across the southern sky. The nights are shorter, but that only means she must be more ruthlessly efficient. She must use her hours wisely.

Coins crunch beneath her feet and beneath the base of her staff as she searches the palace treasury, brushing aside useless diamonds and strings of pearls that cover the chest she is seeking. At last she finds it: A gift from some foreign potentate, who came perhaps from as far as Cathay to pay homage to the great _Sultan_ of Agrabah.

Jasmine's lips curl into a smile as she turns it over in her hand — a finely hewn blade, its handle set with the reddest rubies.

*

The last time she feels him resist is the first time she calls him _slave_.

He has been fighting her all night long — the ungrateful boy. The muscles of her arms ache from holding the staff in his face, straining against his mind's attempts to push it away. Often she must hold it with both hands, unable to wipe away the sweat that trickles down her brow.

Why does he resist that which he truly wants? She will not use the blade until he begs for it, of course. Until he admits his desire for her to hurt him that way. But to force this admission is curiously difficult, and Jasmine does not understand why.

She is the stronger and the more stubborn one, though. She can feel that he is tiring within, though he looks no different — still gazing blankly into the emerald eyes. His open jaw works for a moment, as though perhaps he has forgotten how to speak. At last he manages to close his dry, cracked lips enough to form the necessary word: _Please..._

She nods. She will give him what he desires, for she is a merciful Queen. She tightens her right hand's grip on the staff, bracing in case of a renewed struggle when her left hand leaves it... but none comes.

"Good boy," she whispers. The ruby-handled knife scrapes softly against the table as she picks it up.

In her mercy, she only grazes his helpless skin enough to draw beads of dark crimson to the surface. Not much of that at all — only enough to say that she could do much, much more, if she wished to. Nonetheless, even though she is merciful, she can feel him trembling beneath the blade.

The stained knife is put back in its place so that she can maintain her grip on the staff while she dips her fingertips in the cuts like paint. With her fingertips, she traces letters across his chest: the elegant curves and sweet vowel points of her own name.

"Queen Jasmine," she reads aloud, smiling, admiring her fat, fingerpainted calligraphy. "But can you guess what I am writing now?" She smears the end of her title to change the inflection, and adds to the beginning, reading aloud again: "Queen Jasmine's _slave_."

The staff jumps in her hand, and a strange growling noise issues from her slave's throat. Her left hand flies to the staff to bolster her grip on it, and she leans down to speak to her slave from only a few inches away. Her face is right beside that of the cobra, two predators holding a rat at bay.

"Is it not so?" she demands. "You're even more of a slave than the poor Genie was, aren't you? You don't get to rest after a mere three wishes. Make no mistake: this will not end. You are mine as long as I care to keep you. You are my slave, _forever_."

She thought she'd felt him stop resisting before, but that was nothing compared to what she feels now. It is not just the sensation of a taut line slackening, but of one stretched to the breaking point and suddenly _snapped_. She staggers backward, her feet fumbling on the carpet as the pressure she's been holding on the staff abruptly has nothing to press against.

"Al—" She almost utters his name, surprised at the sight that perhaps should not be a surprise.

His eyes are still under a fog of sorcery, heavier than ever before. They still swirl with magic, with submission to her power, even though the staff is dangling loosely in Jasmine's blood-stained left hand, gazing innocently, harmlessly down at the floor.

*

Jasmine sits on the edge of the garden fountain, as she used to do when she was just a girl. Ages ago, it seems. She peers at her reflection on the moonstruck surface, and feels faintly startled that she looks no different. Her pupils are not serpentine slits, nor have her teeth sharpened into bestial fangs. She still looks like herself.

Beyond the palace walls, the city is quiet, entirely unaware that it is leaderless.

The captain of the guard slinks into the garden and approaches her like a guilty dog. "Your Highness," he says, bent nearly double in humility. "There is a matter I must bring before the Sultan, but — a thousand pardons for my incompetence — I cannot seem to find him in the palace. The door to his chamber is locked, and he does not answer..."

For one breath, Jasmine hesitates, as one might do when stepping off a balcony, knowing one can be saved only by magic.

Then she rises, using the staff to push herself up, and turns to the captain. "The Sultan is indisposed," she says, her voice clear and steady. "Going forward, any matters of state may be brought to me."

*

_The wizened old man cups a hand around the candle to protect against the desert wind as he lights it. Its flame illuminates the deep wrinkles of his face and hands in the night's darkness. He wraps his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, settling himself before the young lad who waits impatiently to hear a tale which has long been kept secret._

_"This is the story," the old man begins, "of the Witch Queen of Agrabah, a wicked sorceress who held her husband the Sultan in the iron grip of enchantment. They say her face was as lovely as the full moon, her heart darker than the new, and her magic stronger than any man's..."_

the end


End file.
